


Old Sorrows

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gondolin, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of past character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: A look into Rog's daily life and the beginning of his friendship with Maeglin.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Old Sorrows

When Rog dreams, it is of darkness and half-forgotten sensations: sweat beading over his skin as he labours in Angband’s mines, the crack of a whip across his shoulders, the malevolence of the lord of that fortress wrapping like bands of steel over limb and _fëa_ alike.

But there are other dreams too, different dreams. Dreams of light in which the city of Tirion is as bright as jewels beneath the glow of the two Trees. These dreams are filled with meaningless things, the small facets of life: the heat of Aulë’s forges, the streets echoing with song at a time of festival, Aredhel’s delighted smile as she and Rog duck out of the way of Oromë’s company hunting in the woods.

It is one of these dreams that Rog has tonight. A mundane dream, holding none of the terror of Angband. Yet Rog still startles awake from it as he has done after so many nightmares. He spends long minutes simply sitting upright in bed, forcing deep breaths into his lungs. It feels like something inside his chest has come loose, like a small part of him does not fit quite right anymore. He lifts tired eyes to the window, and through the gap in the curtains the sky looks flat and grey. The last stars are fading, but the sun has not yet risen.

Rog sighs, pushing himself out of bed. He slips into his usual routine, upending a pitcher over the washbasin, splashing cool water over his face to chase away the tiredness. He dresses, as he always does: breeches first, tunic after, never bothering with anything too formal. Then he twists his hair into a loose braid, and heads outside.

Here in the south-east of Gondolin the tinkle of fountains is part of the fabric of the world as much as the wind or the sun or the rain. His feet automatically follow the familiar path to his smithy, while his mind returns to his dream over and over, lingering on those bright days in Valinor, filled with a lightness of heart that might as well have belonged to a different person.

He enters the smithy without paying much attention to his surroundings. Force of habit guides his hands as he loops his heavy leather apron round his waist. It is only as he turns to walk towards his workbench that he notices he is not alone. Maeglin is hunched over a glimmering necklace, seemingly oblivious to Rog’s presence.

Rog opens his mouth to greet him, but his voice falters as a sudden memory grips him.

He cannot say why the memory chose that exact moment to resurface when he has not thought about it in years. Perhaps it is the stillness of the world at this early hour, or Maeglin’s silhouette cast in shadow by the forge-fire at his back.

When Rog was but a few harvests old, his mother took him to the Halls of Mandos. Nothing to worry about, she said. His father had been commissioned to design a coop for the songbirds in the gardens of Lórien, and while climbing a ladder to assess progress, a misstep, a snapping rung, and his skull had cracked upon the ground.

It took mere minutes to retrieve his father, hale and with the story on his lips as a novelty. Rog and his mother were welcomed by a creature of the Halls who at first glance looked no different from them. But a profoundly _other_ energy seemed to hum in the air about it, an energy that hushed voice and shook _fëa_. Its movements had a preternatural ease to them as it glided across the floor, and beneath its shadowy cowl Rog glimpsed thin lips that had been sewn shut. _There he is_ , the creature seemed to say to them without words. _You know the way out_. He wanted to ask the creature if it knew the way out too.

Rog forces himself to focus once more on the present, shaking his head to clear it and wondering at himself. It is rare for him to give more than cursory notice to memories from so long ago. He sees little point in dwelling on the past.

“Up early, lad?” he asks Maeglin, partly in greeting and partly to dispel his errant thoughts.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Maeglin answers in a soft voice, and though he keeps his face carefully blank, Rog can see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. Rog knows that look all too well.

“It’s nothing worth fretting over,” he tells Maeglin, his tone lighter than his heart. “I’m sure you’ll sleep all the more soundly tonight.”

But Rog knows it is not true. Not for him and not for Maeglin. He fancies he can understand a little of what Maeglin is going through, alone in a city he does not know, his mother’s death weighing heavily on his heart. It is but a few months since Aredhel’s passing, and the knot of grief in Rog’s chest has not dispersed either. He does not think it ever will.

Rog does not have the right words for this. He has always preferred action over fiddling with sentences; he feels most like himself with the weight of a hammer in his hand. Long ago he decided to open his smithy to all the troubled souls in the city, to share his craft with anyone who asks. _You’re one of us, now_ , he tells those who come to him. _You have a home here_.

He knows that neither he nor the others of his house will ever be able to erase the horror of Angband from their minds, or bury their grief over the countless deaths that have littered their path since their flight from Valinor all those years ago. But he does what little he can. Here, in the heat of the forge, with metal singing beneath their hands, he hopes that his people are able to shrug off the yoke of old sorrows for a while.

Maeglin may not be of the folk of the Hammer of Wrath, but that does not matter. Rog senses a kindred spirit in him, and every fibre of his being spurs him to honour the memory of his friendship with Aredhel.

So he draws close to Maeglin, setting up his workstation near him, making sure to leave him plenty of personal space. Maeglin stirs at his approach, neatly setting aside the necklace he has been tinkering with.

“I will leave you to your work,” Maeglin says quietly, not looking at Rog as he starts to head for the door.

Rog turns aside to stoke the flames of the forge-fire. “Feel free to stay, lad. I wouldn’t mind some company.”

Maeglin says nothing, but a few seconds later his footsteps sound across the floor as he returns to the workbench. Rog glances over to him, at the small smile on his face, and his heart is glad.


End file.
